


Trust Me

by ohelrond



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Creepyshipping, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, SO CREEPY I KNOW DON'T KINKSHAME ME, also im sansa/marge trash honestly, kinkshame more like kinksame am i right, ugh i swore i wouldn't ever ship them and then episode 9 happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohelrond/pseuds/ohelrond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place somewhere between the end of S6E9 and S6E10 when Sansa lets out some of her rage and fury on Petyr but not really enough. Next chapter will take things into the smutty E rated category. First chapter is pretty PG13. Under the premise that nothing romantic has happened between Sansa and Petyr other than what we have seen onscreen (which doesn't really count as romantic imo). </p><p>Rape content warning - mentions of Ramsay's abuse of Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's been 685 years since i wrote narrative and first time ever writing got/asoiaf hold tight.

The moment Sansa walked into the rooms she knew she couldn’t stay here. The rooms of her mother and father, the rooms where she and Arya had been born, her brothers, too. When she had been very little and the storms in the night had frightened her, she had evaded the arms of her nurse and scurried to this very room to seek the comfort of her mother and father. Lady Catelyn would stroke her hair and softly hum songs of the Riverlands until she calmed, and sometimes her father would allow her to wrap herself in his arms and touch his beard. When she was little, Sansa wondered if his beard was secretly the fur of direwolves, if he himself was secretly a direwolf. There were tales of her father, after all, spoken and sung and written all over the place and she had hardly been old enough to pay attention and so comprehension was well beyond her. She heard half a story and made up the rest in her head until Lord Eddard Stark was part wolf, and she too was so.

But looking around the rooms now that was not what made her skin crawl. Thoughts of her wedding night, of her months of marriage to Ramsay. No, not marriage. Enslavement. Over the edge of the bed he had bent her and torn her and snickered as she cried. That was only the beginning of it. Breathing in deeply, she could still smell the faint scent of blood; the iron clung to her nostrils. Swallowing hard, she swept from the rooms and did not look back. Her old bedchambers called.

The door swung open at her touch and she entered the room. It was smaller than her parents’, but bigger than the little chamber she had been given in the Eyrie and the one she had shared with Brienne at Castle Black. Dim moonlight streamed through the slits of windows along the south-facing wall, and a few small candles stood burning here and there. Sansa wondered if Jon had guessed she would come to her old room after all. It made her smile slightly. In the corner, her bed stood where it always had, a layer of dust covering the books on the small stand next to it. She padded over and sat on the edge of her bed and wiped away the dust from the top copy. _The Seven Pointed Star_. When Sansa had first learned of King Robert’s visit she had begged her mother for her very own copy of the book. She had hoped it would impress Joffrey if she knew a lot about the Faith. Snorting, she shoved it under her bed. The other volumes were poems and tales of handsome knights and their sweet ladies, of their romances and of their tragedies. What a foolish child she had been. Nonsense, all of it. Utter _nonsense_.

Idly she flicked through the pages until suddenly the door opened. She snapped the book in her hands shut and stood up quickly, heart pounding. Instinctively her hand went to her collar and held it close against her throat.  In the doorway stood Lord Baelish.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, trying to look surprised. Sansa did not relax. “I was not aware you had taken up this room.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she replied dryly.

He made no reply and didn’t even have the courtesy to drop his gaze. The hand clasping her robes to her neck loosened, but only slightly. She stared right back at him. Gods, Sansa hated the smug look he always wore, the curl of his lip that took the place of a smile, the coldness in his eyes. There was a lilt in his voice that sounded almost eastern. Maybe he’d travelled in Essos for a time. Whored and lied his way across that continent too, maybe.

“You’re right,” he said after a moment. The silkiness of his voice made Sansa squirm. “I knew I would find you here.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Sansa replied defiantly.

Littlefinger took a few steps forwards, enough to close the door behind him, shutting her in the small chamber with him. “I knew I would find you here,” he repeated. “My lady, please. We have not spoken since Mole’s Town, not truly. I think it would be good if we cleared the air.”

Something inside Sansa was building. Anger. No, _fury_. “You also thought it would be good to take me to the Eyrie where my own aunt almost killed me. You also thought it would be good to send me back here to man who takes the greatest delight in peeling skin from men as they scream for mercy. Forgive me, Lord Baelish, but I don’t give a _damn_ about what you think would be good.”

“Sansa, please-”

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled. Baelish had taken more steps towards her, reached out a hand to grasp her arm. Fiercely she pushed him away. “You left me here with a monster! You are no better, no better at all, than the man who raped me and beat me and cut me and mutilated me! You gave me to Ramsay and you did nothing to save me!”

A muscle in Littlefinger’s jaw twitched. Sansa saw him swallow, and his eyes looked damp. He opened his mouth to speak again but she suddenly crossed the chamber to him and shoved him roughly. “No! You don’t get to speak! You don’t get anything from me, do you understand? You took everything I had left from me! While I was in King’s Landing I had the queen, I had Olenna Tyrell! They protected me, and so did Tyrion! You stole me from there and sent me here and left me to rot as Ramsay’s newest plaything!”

“You were not safe in King’s Landing,” Littlefinger hissed softly. “Lady Olenna used you as a pawn to kill Joffrey and Tyrion was so focused on his whore mistress that he would never see the dangers you were in. You know this already. I saved you. And then I made the mistake-”

Sansa’s fists curled into the seams of his cloak and she pulled them tight, jaw tight and eyes aflame. “You made more than a mistake, Littlefinger, you-”

“- made the mistake of my life. And I put my life on the line to make it up to you.”

Sansa’s lips curled back over her teeth in a silent hiss and let him go. Counting slowly to ten, she took in deep breaths. It would do her no good to murder Petyr Baelish in her own bedchamber, not with the forces of the Vale still answering to him. After a long moment, after she had composed herself slightly, she turned back to him.

“Where is Ramsay?”

Baelish’s lip twitched in the hint of a smile. “He is waiting for you in the kennels. He has not fed his hounds in seven days.”

 

* * *

 

“Where is he?” Sansa asked a maid as she swept through the great hall, adrenaline making her shake.

“M’lady?”

“Lord Baelish, where is he?”

“In the watchtower, m’lady. Would you like me to send for-?”

Sansa was gone before the girl could finish her sentence.

Sansa Stark’s feet knew the halls of Winterfell better than they knew any other place. Without even thinking they took her to the great stone staircase that led to the watchtower, the one that stood high enough to see for three leagues on a clear day. Her shoes echoed against the worn stone of the steps and although the winter wind whistled around her she did not feel the chill. Ramsay was dead, and she had never felt more alive.

Baelish was looking out over the dark land surrounding the castle when she reached the viewing platform. The guard, wearing Arryn colours, stood to attention at her entrance.

“Leave us!” she said hastily. “Tell the others to go too. We’ll be safe for tonight. Go!”

Baelish watched her with an unreadable expression as all the watchmen left on her word.

“You made this happen,” Sansa said once they were all gone. She spoke quickly, excited and exhilarated and nervous and gods’ knew what else. She wrung her hands and began pacing along the cold platform. “You brought the Arryn forces and saved Jon and his army and without that Jon would have died and I would have too and all the wildlings and the other men who pledged themselves to us but they didn’t die, and you are the reason! Yes, you sold me out to the Boltons but you aided me when I most needed you to and I am alive because for once you did the right thing and gods! I hate you for all that you have put me through and for all the wrongs you have done me but-!”

She came to a standstill, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He would never wrong her again, that Sansa knew. He was utterly in love with her, that she knew too. She certainly didn’t love him, but…

In a haze, she closed the space between them, flying against him and digging her hands into his shoulders. She kissed him hard. It took him a moment to respond but suddenly his hands were in her hair, gripping it, his lips parting hers and suddenly their kiss was sharp with teeth and tongue and lips and-

Sansa pulled away, eyes wide. “I…”

Littlefinger was breathing hard, eyes on her lips, pressing close to her. “Sansa,” he murmured. “What is it?”

“I want to,” she whispered, dazed by the high of Ramsay’s death, dazed by the taste of Baelish’s mouth.

“You want to what?”

Slowly she licked her lips, eyes still wide. Slowly she let go of his robes and took half a step back. “Don’t make me say it outloud. You know. But I need it a certain way. I need you to trust me.”

She was in a state. Nervous, excited, afraid, strong, vulnerable, all at the same time. Baelish gave her half a smile as his breathing slowly returned to normal, but his heartrate did not. “I trust you, Sansa. I trust you with my life.”

“I hate it when you say things like that,” Sansa admitted, holding his eye contact.

Grinning, Baelish replied. “I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of the chapter is after the evens of Season 6. As the show timeline is fairly ambiguous with what happens when in relation to different storylines, so too is this... perhaps Cersei has been queen for a few months, and the Battle of the Bastards was six months ago.

The first time she let Petyr into her bed was that night. She barely let him touch her, though. Back in King’s Landing, in another life, it sometimes felt, Margaery had taught Sansa tricks. For a few sweet months Sansa had been in love with her, stealing kisses in the gardens, sacred touches in the Godswood, and Sansa had learned a great deal. So with Petyr, she did what she had done with Margaery. Tied him up, although there was only her rough woollen wraps for his wrists, not the soft silks she had used in the south. Ridden his thigh, ground against him as his cock was pressed flush against his stomach. It was difficult to meet his gaze, too, when he looked up at her with such adoration and desire and genuine love, when all Sansa wanted in that moment was to ride him and finish and send him away. After their first kiss in the watchtower she had barely let him touch her that night. After she came, he was still hard. She had made no attempts to relieve his tension and she was fully dressed once again when she untied him and asked him to leave. He had left like she asked, but Sansa heard him just the other side of her door, stroking himself and grunting lowly in the corridor, spilling into his breeches and panting against the stone the other side of the wall.

It was like that for a while. Trust came slowly. Littlefinger trusted Sansa enough to let her tie him up, and then the binding was gone, but he was still the passive party on his back beneath her. It took what felt like months for her to become comfortable with his hands on her but he always followed her lead and watched her carefully and quickly he learned to pick up on her signals. When she closed her eyes, he had permission to continue what he was doing. When she looked down, eyes open, he stopped. Sometimes she would just get off him and pull on her nightgown and ask him to get out. Every time he left, Sansa trusted him a little more.

One night, Sansa came to Baelish’s room past midnight. When she was atop him this time, she took his cock into her hand and slid it through the slick lips between her legs, circling her clit slowly with his tip, drenching his skin. She closed her eyes as she stroked his sacs and leaned down to kiss his nipples, to bite them. Petyr’s hiss told her not to stop, and soon he spilled across his stomach, between her pretty folds.

But still Sansa did not allow him to enter her. Not yet. It would be months until she trusted him enough.

 

* * *

 

“I leave in the morning.”

Sansa looked up at Lord Baelish as he stood in front of her. Snow was falling slowly from the sky, quiet after the screaming and howling of the storm last night. It caught in the red flames of her hair, making her look soft, gentle. No longer was she either of those things.

“If my lady permits it.”

“Why have you not told me sooner?” she asked. When she stood up, the snow crunched underneath her feet. The cold was beginning to make her toes numb.

“A raven carrying the call only arrived at noon. Cersei has summoned me to the capital.”

Sansa eyed him sceptically. “You’re not really thinking of going to her, are you? She’ll have your head on a spike.”

“You know me better than that, Sansa,” he replied, smirking slightly. “I ride for Stokeworth where Lady Tanda will quietly play my host. After Cersei’s little trick with wildfire I am told Tanda Stokeworth no longer feels the sense of loyalty to the crown she once did.”

Sansa was far from convinced. “You’d be a fool to trust them. She’d sooner sell you out than risk facing treason charges. Don’t go. Please.”

“If I do not heed her command you may face a Lannister army on your doorstep and at this particular moment that is not a fight we can yet win.”

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa replied, a grin threatening to break over her face. “You seem to be under the impression that you are important enough to warrant such a response. Cersei would not risk sending a substantial force away from the city or the Rock _just_ to collect you.”

Sansa’s breath appeared as fog from her lips when Petyr pulled her close, grinning. He smiled differently when they were alone and when he was not plotting. It reached his eyes.

“And so she would not if I were at Stokeworth. Besides, she will not know. Once I am there, I will have my spies from the kitchens and gardens and stables and every other corner of the Keep and I shall soon know what she wants from me. If it is less favourable, I shall return here, or to the Vale.”

“The Vale?” Sansa’s hands curled around his cloak, still pulled close to him. She was as tall as him, able to look him in the eye and although her gaze was steady, the slight indignation in her voice gave away her concern. “Why would you go there?”

“I go wherever my lady commands, but I thought a visit to little Lord Arryn would ease his anxiousness regarding his forces that remain in the north.”

Sansa pushed her fist against his chest slightly, trying not to smile. “You shouldn’t call him _little_. You know how temperamental he is, don’t say anything that could make you fly. Now,” she said, rolling her shoulders back and stepping out of his loose embrace, serious once more. “If you are sure of your plan, I give you leave to travel south, but no further south than Harrenhal. You will have your spies send word to you there of what Cersei wants and in turn send word to myself and my brother. You will wait on our command. Take from Winterfell whatever you need.”

She saw a flicker of a smirk in his face but ignored it. He nodded, and swept her a low bow. Sansa raised her chin slightly and dismissed him with the slightest tilt of her head. Once he had left the Godswood of Winterfell, Sansa quickly hurried back inside the castle. She could no longer feel her feet.

*****************************

Sansa groaned as her back slammed against the wall, Petyr’s lips at her neck. Her skirts were hitched up around her waist, his hand pressing hard between her legs and his teeth were making their sharp marks on her pale skin.

“I want you to fuck me,” she whispered again against his ear, her voice cracking. “Petyr, please!”

“Say my name again,” he grunted, biting the lobe of her ear.

Sansa let her head drop back against the wall and moaned softly. “Petyr.”

He let out a noise akin to a growl and pulled her tight in his arms. Sansa stumbled as he pulled her onto the bed, into his lap, and tore at the ties on the front of her dress, kissing whatever skin was exposed to him. Fingers wound into his dark hair and tugged hard when his lips covered her nipple, sucking and licking until Sansa was all but whimpering. His tongue wound its way between her breasts and his hands tore at her dress as it bunched at her waist and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself before standing to yank it off. The dark fabric had hardly fallen to the floor when Petyr grabbed her close again and pulled one of her legs to rest over his shoulder where he sat on the edge of the bed. It made her weak when his hands teased open her folds and he held them parted to bury his face there. Her wet cunt made his chin and nose and cheeks slick but he didn’t care, and when he sank two fingers into her she made a noise sweet enough to make him shiver.

“Seven hells,” Sansa groaned. She gripped onto him to steady her, her heart racing. He sucked on her clit and flicked it hard and fast as his fingers fucked her and she had to lean forwards, bending over his head, moaning again and again until she felt a tightening in her stomach. Petyr felt her tense up and he stopped. Sansa almost screamed.

“Don’t stop!” she begged. Sweat covered her face and chest and she was panting and trembling, frustration coursing through her veins. Collapsing on the bed, she pulled him on top of her roughly, spreading her legs for him. Petyr’s hands clenched against the bedsheets.

“Fuck me! Inside me! Petyr, please!”

He silenced her with a searing kiss. Sansa opened her lips desperately and pushed her tongue past his lips, stroking and pressing against his, tasting herself on him and sucking hard on his tongue. His cock was pressing against her through his breeches, rubbing against her, teasing. Pressing fingers between her legs and then into Petyr’s mouth, Sansa pulled open his breeches with one hand and stroked his hard cock. It was making her mouth water, but with her fingers between his lips she could barely think straight.

Then he was kneeling and pulling her legs around his hips and she could feel him sliding through her folds, around her clit, making her back arch. Sansa didn’t know when her eyes closed but all of a sudden she could hear Petyr’s voice, low and silky, telling her to open them. She did. He held her gaze as he slowly slid into her.

Sansa’s hands curled into fists and she had to press one against her mouth to bite in an attempt to muffle her loud cries as he filled and stretched her and his hips touched her backside and she buried her face into the pillow under her head. “Move!” was the only thing she could cry. Gods, if he didn’t start fucking her properly soon-!

He began slowly. She was so wet that every movement made such a slick sound Petyr thought he might come at any moment, and so hot, too. Every time he slid out of her slightly she clenched around him, making him grunt quietly. So soft, so silky and hot and welcoming, so perfect. As she lay, face still buried in the pillow, Petyr was blessed with the view of her naked body in the gentle glow of candlelight. Soft stomach, pale thighs, small breasts, freckles dotting all over her skin. And gods, where her pink pussy took him in, as if he were made to fill the space between her legs. He moved one hand from her hip to rest on her stomach, thumb sliding down to rub her clit. It made her legs shake.

Opening her eyes and turning slightly to look up at him, Sansa saw Petyr’s gaze fixed where his cock entered her and she bit her lip hard. She propped herself up on her elbows, mind hazy with the sensation of him inside of her, and watched him pressing in and out of her, in and out. Too slow. Far too slow. Then he pressed harder, faster. Once. Enough to make her stomach jolt. Enough to make her head drop back and a guttural moan sound in her throat. “Do that again.”

Petyr swallowed. Her voice was so low when she was in this state, it made him feel both weak and powerful at the same time. She didn’t need him to be like this, she could have anyone, or no one. But she chose him. He was the one who was making Sansa Stark beg for more, who was making Sansa Stark’s pussy drip and who left burning kisses on her breasts. It was him she wanted more of. So he gave it.

All of a sudden he was hard and fast, leaning down to press open mouthed kisses to her lips, tongue licking against hers, and all she could feel was the friction inside of her making her wetter and more desperate and his hand was rubbing against her furiously and her breath was becoming shorter and faster and her eyes were clenched shut and there was so much building up inside of her and the tension was too much and-

Sansa bit into Petyr’s shoulder as she came crashing around him, tightening and moaning his name against his ear. It was too much and he didn’t even have time to pull out before he spilled inside of her. She felt him fill her and her stomach jolted nervously knowing she would have to wash herself out after he left. No baby of his would she bear. No baby would she ever bear.

Their sweating bodies slumped together, both panting and shaking slightly as small aftershocks broke over them now and again. Petyr rolled off her but she pulled him in close to rest her head on his shoulder. It was the first time she had let him enter her, and the first time she had not asked him to leave as soon as she was finished. It made Petyr smile slightly to himself, and he held her close.

“I love you, Sansa,” he whispered against her hair.

She did not reply immediately. Instead, she leaned up and softly kissed his lips. Petyr’s beard was a little scratchy. She liked it. She did not love it, but she liked it. She liked him. After a long moment, after he had pulled the bedsheets and furs over their cooling bodies, she replied. “I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh I wasn't entirely happy with how it turned out. Also I write once every 2 years like maximum so if you were hoping for more... don't because I'm super unreliable. If you want to hmu about this pairing on tumblr though deffo come find me @ ohelrond


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